


to drown in summer stars and cherry wine

by REVVIII



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heartbreak, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Stargazing, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:35:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19296811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/REVVIII/pseuds/REVVIII
Summary: Crowley hadn’t meant to fall. It had been an accident, the first time, when all he’d done was hang around the wrong sort and ask a couple questions, and then suddenly he was burning, his soul on fire and his wings searing off his back as he plummeted down to the flames of Hell – well, as much as you could plummet when there wasn’t really an up or down. He’d reached out as he fell, grasping at the inky blackness that was everything that existed back then, hoping that somehow, miraculously, he’d catch something to slow his inevitable descent, but of course, there had been nothing. He’d fallen, and there had been nothing to stop him, and he was told that it was all his fault.The second time he fell had also been an accident. He’d been doing his job, really, slithering around in Eden after being sent up by high office to cause trouble. Teaching the humans the difference between right and wrong, and tempting them to do the wrong thing. He’d done his job, getting them kicked out of Eden, and that was supposed to have been the end of it.Hardly his fault there was an angel there with him.





	to drown in summer stars and cherry wine

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I haven't read the book in many years and shipping for the copy I ordered got delayed so apologies if anything here goes against book-canon! I did take some liberty with fan theories though ;)

Crowley hadn’t meant to fall. It had been an accident, the first time, when all he’d done was hang around the wrong sort and ask a couple questions, and then suddenly he was burning, his soul on fire and his wings searing off his back as he plummeted down to the flames of Hell – well, as much as you could plummet when there wasn’t really an up or down. He’d reached out as he fell, grasping at the inky blackness that was everything that existed back then, hoping that somehow, miraculously, he’d catch something to slow his inevitable descent, but of course, there had been nothing. He’d fallen, and there had been nothing to stop him, and he was told that it was all his fault.

Still, he’d been one of the lucky ones. His wings had grown back, his burns had healed, and he’d been spared the indignity of having a reptile or insect on his head. He’d been allowed to bear some resemblance to the glory of what he once had been, even if his eyes would serve as permanent reminder to what he’d become. (That’s why he wore the sunglasses, actually, even when there was no one around. It let everyone else think that he was something he wasn’t, at least not anymore, and to make it easier for himself to pretend that too.)

His name had changed too, of course; another reminder of what he’d become. He hadn’t been Crawly up there in Heaven; no, that wasn’t the sort of name an angel had. But ‘Raphael’ wasn’t right for a demon, so he’d picked something new to go by.

Nowadays, he liked to think he was over his fall and that he’d embraced demonship perfectly well. He’d never really fit in when he was up in Heaven, anyway, so he told himself that it might as well have happened. Now he caused mischief, he caused annoyance – what other fun was there?

No, he was perfectly fine being a demon, even though he knew he didn’t fit in perfectly down there either. He was perfectly okay with it, except for when he wasn’t, and a lot of that had to do with the second time he fell.

The second time he fell had also been an accident. He’d been doing his job, really, slithering around in Eden after being sent up by high office to cause trouble. Teaching the humans the difference between right and wrong, and tempting them to do the wrong thing. He’d done his job, getting them kicked out of Eden, and that was supposed to have been the end of it.

Hardly _his_ fault there was an angel there with him.

Crowley didn’t mean to fall in love with the angel. Loving angels was too…well, angelic. As a demon, it was exactly the opposite of what he was supposed to be doing, but he did it anyway. He couldn’t help himself. Really – it wasn’t his fault the angel had a beautiful smile, bright, twinkling eyes, and was naïve and ridiculous beyond anything he’d seen before.

Seriously, who gives away a flaming sword?

Love at first sight. Crowley wondered which side took credit for that one.

Aziraphale was like a drug, Crowley discovered across the centuries. Temptation and obsession and hunger wrapped up in one neat, unassuming package; something Crowley had gotten a taste of at the beginning of the creation of the earth and had still been hooked on six thousand years later, always coming back for more, always needing another hit. It was because of Aziraphale that Crowley thought he understood so well the feeling of addiction that his side – no, _Hell’s_ side, he was on Aziraphale’s side now – had created, and he did feel quite a bit of pity for all the poor souls who had been consumed by addiction because even addiction to a person was inconvenient and frustrating and annoying no matter how good it made him feel or how much he needed it. Demons weren’t _supposed_ to love. Crowley didn’t even know that he was even still capable of it, until he met Aziraphale.

Not that Crowley would ever admit it to the angel. Crowley didn’t think Aziraphale knew how he felt, though he could probably figure it out if he thought about it; the angel just smiled that beautiful bright smile with his eyes crinkling at the corners when he saw him and his face lighting up like the sun had just come out on a cloudy day, completely and utterly oblivious to what Crowley would be willing to do for him, how wholly and completely Crowley loved him. They just went on picnics and to shows and for walks in the park, and Crowley could pretend that Aziraphale loved him back, and, for a long time, Crowley thought he would be okay keeping it that way.

But six thousand years is a _very_ long time, especially when you’re pining, long even in context of eternity. Crowley didn’t like thinking about Armageddon-that-didn’t-happen, didn’t like the reminder of the horrible, terrible, worst few hours in his entire existence when he thought that Aziraphale had been well and truly gone forever – a long time, when you’re immortal. He didn’t like the reminder of how it felt to choke out ‘best friend’ when what he meant was ‘the angel I love most in all of creation, the angel I would fall for a hundred thousand times over, the angel I devote my entire existence to.’ And Armageddon-that-didn’t-happen and all the horrible memories that came with it did also remind him that despite everything, Aziraphale was _here_ , he was _alive_ , and Crowley hadn’t lost him, but Aziraphale _still_ didn’t know how much Crowley loved him, and Crowley couldn’t help wondering if it would be like this forever.

Pining. Longing. An eternity of reaching out to grasp for something that wouldn’t reach back.

Falling, all over again.

How long would he have to wait, before Aziraphale caught him?

“There is no ‘our side,’” Aziraphale had said desperately under the pavilion that day, his voice cracking the same way it had cracked when just a few moments earlier he’d said, “You can’t leave, Crowley.” (That had almost broken the demon, hearing his angel in such torment.) It wasn’t the first time the angel had said something like that; through the centuries there had been many different variations of ‘my side, your side’ and ‘I don’t know him’ and ‘we’re not friends’ and all that. But this was the end of the world and the first time it had really _mattered_ , and then Crowley hated that he was a demon, because maybe if he had never fallen, maybe if he had still been an angel, it would have been easier for Aziraphale to want to stay with him.

There were other times, too. “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale had said softly in the Bentley that day, and Crowley had wanted to scream, to cry, to shout, because it had been _six thousand years_ , and Crowley couldn’t go any slower because he was a demon and it was in his nature to go fast and chaotic like a tempest instead of steadfast and lingering like an angel. But he didn’t scream or cry or shout. He didn’t make a sound. He stayed quiet, looking at the angel’s retreating form in heartbroken silence, wanting the end of that eternal wait to come so he could hold his angel close all the sooner.

Even the end of Armageddon-that-didn’t-happen felt bitter. Sure, they’d saved the world together; sure, they’d dined at the Ritz while a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square; sure, they’d escaped their respective high offices and _survived_ against all odds, but Crowley had offered for Aziraphale to stay at his place when it would have been _perfectly easy_ for the angel to say yes, and he’d said no instead.

He said yes to almost everything else. It was just that as soon as Crowley got anywhere close to confession, anywhere close to something a little beyond friendship, the angel pulled away, and pulled a little bit more of Crowley’s heart with him.

He’d said yes to stargazing, though, and though he’d expected the angel to agree, Crowley still counted that as a little bit of a win.

He’d take anything, at this point.

They had driven out to the countryside one evening several weeks after Armageddon-that-didn’t-happen and were currently sitting on a hillside looking at the stars. It almost felt like a date, Crowley thought, and he allowed himself a small smile at the memory of the look of surprise on Aziraphale’s face when he suggested they come out here.

“Never thought you’d be one for stargazing, Crowley,” Aziraphale had said.

“Nah, not really, but I thought you would be,” Crowley had returned, before sauntering off to the Bentley, and before he’d turned away he thought he’d seen a hint of that look Aziraphale had had on his face the night Crowley had rescued him from the Nazis and saved his books.

He still didn’t understand what exactly it was. It certainly looked a bit like how Crowley felt about Aziraphale, brimming with a love and adoration that he didn’t think he could ever put into words, but Aziraphale was still technically an angel even if he’d gone a bit rogue. That’s how he was _supposed_ to feel about everyone. It was how he should _normally_ look at things, so it most certainly didn’t mean anything out of the ordinary when it was directed at Crowley (except, maybe, reaffirming his stance that Aziraphale truly was just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing, because no other angel would ever look at a demon the same way they looked at every other of God’s creations).

“Tell me why you didn’t run off to Alpha Centauri,” Aziraphale said now, softly, as the sky dimmed with the last fading remnants of the sun and the first stars began to peek out from behind the curtain of dusk. “You seemed so certain about it.”

“What, are you sad I didn’t?” Crowley asked, with a bit of a scoff, because that’s just what his personality was. Hard and cold and calloused, trying to hide the affection he so desperately felt.

“No,” Aziraphale said. The response was immediate and firm but still gentle. “No, Crowley, I am very, very glad that you didn’t.”

“Oh.” Crowley looked at the horizon. Well, that was nothing new either; if the angel had stuck around him for this long it meant that he had to at least _like_ him, right? And it followed that if Aziraphale at least liked him a bit, he would have been sorry to see Crowley go, and glad to see Crowley stay.

“But that doesn’t tell me why,” Aziraphale said.

“I told you, I changed my mind,” Crowley said, with a twinge of pain in his chest at the unwelcome memory of that day, a good few hours of it spent drunk out of his mind when he’d believed he’d lost Aziraphale forever. The world had ended for him that moment, right then and there, when he’d thought that his angel had been gone for good, and he’d seen no point in continuing to exist if he could never see Aziraphale again. It was like a light that had burned bright and hot for thousands of years, from even before the creation of time itself, had suddenly been extinguished, and Crowley had been plunged into the dark. He still ached at the memory. He would always ache at the memory.

“But _why_?” Aziraphale pressed.

 _Because I love you._ Crowley turned to look at him. “Surely you can figure it out, Angel,” he said quietly, and now his voice had none of the bite or sarcasm or jest that he usually had. It was a challenge this time, an offering, in the darkness of night. Carving open his chest to pull his heart out and put it on a silver platter – no, a gold one, or better yet, sunlight itself, because Aziraphale deserved nothing less – and hold it outstretched for the angel to take, if he was looking for it, if he wanted it.

Aziraphale met his gaze as well as he could through Crowley’s sunglasses. Crowley felt like he was in a very dangerous place, where it would be far too easy to open his mouth and let spill all of his thoughts and feelings about Aziraphale. And that was dangerous indeed, because he’d gotten close to that before, when he’d asked Aziraphale to run off to the stars with him before Armageddon-that-didn’t-happen, when he’d asked if Aziraphale wanted to stay over at his place for the night instead because his bookshop had burned down and that would have been a perfectly acceptable excuse, when he’d offered to take Aziraphale anywhere he wanted to go and the angel had uttered those simple words that had shattered Crowley’s heart.

No, Crowley couldn’t tell him, but surely Aziraphale could figure it out if he wanted to; surely the angel could find a demon’s heart held out so anxiously in front of him. The angel was a bit thick sometimes, especially when he was caught up in righteousness and justice and everything Heaven was supposed to fight for, but he wasn’t on Heaven’s side anymore, and he really was usually quite clever. Surely he’d be able to remember everything Crowley had done, everything Crowley had offered, and from the complex tangle of swagger and bravado that Crowley put out, pluck out the lifeline holding it all together, the lifeline that screamed _this is all for you Angel, everything is for you, I love you I love you I love you._

“Perhaps I could,” Aziraphale said. “But I…I’d like you to tell me.”

Crowley swallowed. _I love you_ , he thought. _I stayed because I loved you and I still love you and couldn’t bear to leave you. I’ve done all this for you, and I’ll do so much more, but I can’t tell you, because that would mean telling you how much I love you and I’m afraid of what you would say if you knew, afraid of what you would do, afraid that you’d be pushed away one step too far this time and never come back. And I don’t think I could survive that._

“I got lazy,” he said instead, and turned back to look at the sky.

Aziraphale didn’t ask him again.

It was a calm, quiet night; a beautiful night. It was summer, and the crickets were chirping lullabies, and frogs from the lake down below were singing love songs to each other. This far from any city, the stars were bright in a way they never were in London, and there was a kind of peace in the air that London could never achieve, even deep in the park. Constellations spiraled above them; glorious, bright, beautiful, and Crowley thought the cold pinpricks of light seemed warm where they were reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes. He could smell the angel’s familiar scent – woody and slightly sweet, with a buttery aftershave – on the slight breeze sweeping through the air and the small space between them. He saw the faint corporeal pulse in the angel’s throat; a slight beating of pale, smooth skin, each faint flutter sending more of the angel’s heady scent towards him and reminding Crowley of the delicacy and sensitivity of skin there, of all the tender warmth that the angel was.

Crowley wanted to kiss him.

He was falling again, drowning in the stars, except this time the stars were in Aziraphale’s eyes, and Aziraphale, still, same as the past six thousand years, wasn’t looking at him. (How long would he have to wait before Aziraphale caught him?)

Crowley looked away, swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, tried to tell himself that being close to his angel here under the stars they’d created was enough.

“This is beautiful,” Aziraphale said quietly, at a little past midnight.

“Mm?”

“I said, this is beautiful,” Aziraphale said. He glanced over at Crowley. “I’ve spent too much time in London; I’d forgotten what night is like in the countryside. How many stars you can see, how quiet it is…I do wish I could come out here more often.”

“Anytime,” Crowley said immediately, honestly, gently. “Anytime you want, Angel, just let me know and I’ll drive us out here.”

“Really?”

“Mhmm.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale paused, and for a moment Crowley thought he was going to say something about his driving, thought the angel would say that he could just miracle himself out here or take a bus or call a cab instead, thought the angel was going to break his heart again, but then he said, “I’d appreciate that. Thank you, Crowley.”

Another pause.

“I’m glad you suggested this, too,” Aziraphale said. “Coming out here tonight, I mean. It’s…it’s wonderful.”

“Glad you like it,” Crowley said simply, instead of saying something stupid like _I did it all for you, picking a day with perfect weather and a place with beautiful stars because I thought it would be something you’d enjoy, and I’d do anything to make you happy._

“To think all of this might have been lost,” Aziraphale continued quietly.

Crowley frowned. “Lost?”

“Yes. Because of Armageddon,” Aziraphale said, with a glance at the demon.

“Angel, that was just going to destroy this planet, not everything in the universe.”

“Yes, but then stargazing wouldn’t be the same,” Aziraphale said. There was a bit of tenderness in his voice, a bit of wistfulness, a bit of pain; he seemed unusually subdued tonight. “We wouldn’t have this hill, these smells, this night…it would all be different, even if the stars we’re looking at were still there.” He glanced at Crowley again. “And if Armageddon had happened, if we’d fought the war…someone would have won. Someone would have lost. One of _us_ would have lost. Either Hell would have won and destroyed everything related to Heaven, or Heaven would have won and destroyed everything related to Hell, including –”

He broke off. Crowley felt his heart jump in his chest.

“Including you,” Aziraphale finished quietly. He was looking at Crowley now, and his expression was raw. Crowley held his breath, wanted to hear the angel continue the thought, wanted to hear him say that he couldn’t stand losing Crowley, wanted to hear him say that he knew Crowley loved him and that he loved Crowley back, wanted _so badly_ to hear those words that he felt like his chest was being crushed and his ribs were breaking.

Aziraphale didn’t say them.

Crowley told himself that he was okay with that.

The stars spiraled higher in the sky, arcing brilliantly from the horizon, and Crowley did not think about what might have happened if he’d left, if he’d run away and let Aziraphale deal with the end of the world on his own.

“Are you tired?” Aziraphale asked a few hours later, a bit of a smile coloring his words. “I know you’re accustomed to napping at night.”

“ _Sleeping_ , Aziraphale, at night it’s called sleeping. But no, I’m okay,” Crowley murmured, though he had, in fact, been starting to drift off before the angel had spoken. It was nice, sitting on the hillside with his angel beside him, basking in faint starlight on a moonless night, the sky so clear that he could see the Milky Way. It was peaceful and safe in a way that he hadn’t known in a while, and the part of him that had accepted that Aziraphale would never love him back, not in that way at least, wanted to stay like that forever. The other part ached, to be so close but unable to move closer.

“Sleeping, then,” Aziraphale said quietly, and Crowley could still hear that infuriatingly beautiful little smile that he knew was curving the corners of the angel’s red lips. “You don’t want to sleep?”

“No.” _I’d rather be awake by your side._

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“ _Yes_ , Angel.”

“…Alright.” But Aziraphale reached out to him anyway, touched his cheek, brought his head down to rest in his lap. Crowley realized, with a slight shudder in his breath, that this might have been the first time in six thousand years that the angel had touched him willingly, tenderly, almost lovingly. He realized, with a jolt in his heart, that for the first time ever, the angel had brought him closer.

Was it – could it –?

Crowley didn’t let himself hope. Hope could be the cruelest thing.

Crowley didn’t really sleep, since that would have been a bit embarrassing after insisting so firmly that he didn’t want to, though he did fall into a sort of half-asleep stupor once his heart had calmed itself back down. Aziraphale was warm, and his hand was resting on Crowley’s head, thumb stroking lightly against Crowley’s cheek. As time slipped by, his other hand moved to Crowley’s hair, running fingers through it gently, almost absent-mindedly. Hypnotizing.  

“No,” Crowley mumbled, when Aziraphale fingers drifted to a stop a few hours later and the angel began to draw away. Tiredness and darkness lowered his inhibitions and he dared to reach out, to catch the angel’s hands and pull them back, tilting his head into the angel’s touch. “Stay.”

He felt surprise coming from his angel, sensed it in the hitch in his breath and the stutter in his fingertips, and he tensed reflexively, fearing that he’d gone too far, but there was no protest. “I’ll stay,” Aziraphale murmured instead, and Crowley felt his heart bloom.

It felt so wonderful to be touched like that, to be _caressed_ through the darkness of night, and Crowley let himself think, for just these few hours in the darkness of pre-dawn, that Aziraphale really did love him back. He basked in the tenderness of Aziraphale’s hands, yearned for more of this new drug that was an angel’s touch, and was truly sorry when the sky began to lighten.

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly, the sound of an angel waking a sleeping lover at dawn when deep, rich indigo began to give way to a dusky pink, and the stars had begun to twinkle out.

“I’m awake,” Crowley said, quietly enough that he didn’t disturb the peace. He didn’t want to move. He was content there, with his head in the angel’s lap and the angel’s fingers in his hair, and he never wanted to move from that moment.

The angel laughed quietly. “It’s almost light. I should be getting back to my bookshop.”

Ah. He’d forgotten the angel had non-Heavenly responsibilities. Crowley swallowed his disappointment and let himself lie there for another few moments, soaking in the angel’s warmth and affection, and sat up only when Aziraphale had moved his hands away.

Crowley’s cheek was cold where his hand had been.

Crowley wanted him back.

They walked to the Bentley, and Crowley didn’t say a word about it, because the vulnerability that came with the comfort of night was lifting and he couldn’t pretend Aziraphale loved him anymore, even though he wanted Aziraphale more than ever before and he couldn’t bring himself to think about the eternity of nights in front of him spent without his angel in his arms. “Lift home?” Crowley asked as they both got in the car, trying to sound casual instead of like his heart was aching with longing, instead of like they had both just spent a night closer than they had ever been before but neither of them willing to admit it.

“That would be nice, thank you.”

“When do you need to get back by?”

“I usually start opening up around nine,” Aziraphale said. “So there’s still some time.”

“Ah. Good, I won’t have to go too fast then,” Crowley said. A small, sad, wry smile spread itself across his face at his words. _I won’t have to go too fast._ Ah, who was he kidding? He always went too fast, no matter how much he tried. He could go half the speed limit and it would still be too fast for Aziraphale, because he knew it wasn’t just the speed of his driving that Aziraphale had been talking about; it was the speed of his existence.

Was he really like that? Is that really how Aziraphale saw him? Flitting around from one thing to another, changing interests and topics on a whim? Could the angel really not see that he wasn’t like that at all, that his life was tied to the angel’s consistency? He was an addict to Aziraphale’s drug, a moth to Aziraphale’s flame, except this flame would never go out, and Crowley _knew_ he would burn but he would burn himself getting too close nevertheless.

Or maybe Aziraphale was afraid. He’d held back from friendship, even, for six thousand years, under the fear of what Heaven would say or do. They’d both held back out of fear. But there was no need to be afraid of that anymore. Couldn’t he see that? Couldn’t he see that Crowley would protect him with his life, that Crowley would fight all the armies of Heaven and Hell combined to save his angel and keep him safe?

Then again, Crowley had threatened to run off to the stars without him.

He never would, of course; he would never leave his angel behind. He didn’t think he was physically capable of doing so. But there was no reason for Aziraphale to know that.

Perhaps Aziraphale’s fear was warranted.

“Crowley?”

The angel’s voice jerked Crowley out of his thoughts, and he realized that he’d been sitting there not moving for the past few minutes. “Sorry – London. Your place.” But he still didn’t move. He sat there in the driver’s seat, ready to turn the car on and drive them both home, but he didn’t. He didn’t know exactly what was stopping him, either, except that he suddenly felt that all of the longing and heartbreak that had been building up over six thousand years needed somewhere to go, and he had just spent a night with his angel out on a hillside watching stars with the angel’s hands in his hair, and they were now sitting in the peaceful almost-light of dawn and his heart felt raw.

“Crowley, what’s wrong?”

 _What’s wrong?_ Crowley wanted to laugh. _My heart’s breaking, that’s what’s wrong. I’ve given you my heart over and over again and you’ve shattered it, and no one except you can put it back together, but you won’t, and now I’m trying to live with the pieces._

“Crowley, please –”

“I love you,” Crowley blurted out, because the angel’s voice was tender and kind and concerned and it was all too much after six thousand years of waiting, six thousand years of hoping Aziraphale would reach out and catch him and knowing that it would never happen. He felt his throat constrict, felt his eyes begin to burn, and told himself no, _no,_ you are _not_ going to cry –

He cried. Hot, fat, wet tears slid down his face from behind his sunglasses, and his shoulders shook with sobs, and then Aziraphale was there, leaning across the space between them and holding him until Crowley couldn’t help but melt into his touch, crawling over into the passenger seat and curling into Aziraphale’s warmth as tightly as he could, as tightly as he dared.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and his voice shook. “Oh, Crowley, I can’t –”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley hiccoughed, pulling away immediately and trying to wipe away the wetness from his face, because Aziraphale couldn’t want this, he couldn’t want to have to deal with a heartbroken demon crying into his suit. He pulled away because that’s what he’d done for the past six thousand years, every time he got too close and he knew the angel didn’t want him there. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…”

“Talk to me, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, and he didn’t let Crowley pull away this time. He drew the demon in closer instead, until Crowley’s face was pressed into his shoulder, his tears ruining the suit that Aziraphale had kept clean for over a century now, and his hands were in Crowley’s hair again, caressing his cheek, and Crowley was drowning.

“I love you,” Crowley said, because Aziraphale had asked him to talk, and he’d do anything his angel asked. “I’ve loved you for six thousand years, Angel, and I’m not ever going to stop. I don’t think I _can_ , at this point. Everything I do, my whole existence, is all for you. I’d do anything. I’ll _be_ anything. All I ever wanted was –” He broke off. He couldn’t say that. _All I ever wanted was you_.

“Tell me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly, and Crowley’s resolution crumbled.

“All I ever wanted was you,” Crowley said aloud, because Aziraphale had asked him. He clung to his angel, hands fisting in the fine fabric of his suit, pressing into the angel’s touch as much as he dared to and more. Aziraphale was a drug, and Crowley was a hopeless, helpless addict at his feet, begging for more even when he felt like loving was killing him. “That’s all, Angel,” Crowley said, broken, crying, knowing that what he was asking was ridiculous but asking it all the same. “You’re everything to me, and I’d give everything for you, but you don’t look at me. _Six thousand years_ , Aziraphale, and I’ve gone as slowly as I know how, and I know you can’t give me what I want and I know I _still_ go too fast for you, but I still – I still love you. And here I am, spilling my heart out just because you asked me to, wanting to know _when_ , when you’ll be ready, when I’ll be able to slow down or when you’ll be okay with going fast, when I’ll be _enough_ for you, and I know you’re going to pull away like you always do and I’ll still be here begging for you to take me back but I wish – I don’t want you to pull away, Aziraphale, I want you to stay with me and hold me and kiss me and tell me that you love me and –”

Aziraphale kissed him.

Crowley stopped talking then, because it seemed like that’s what Aziraphale wanted, and after the initial shock had melted away he kissed his angel back, tasting him and wanting more, his hands reaching up to clutch at the angel’s shoulders and to tangle in his hair, forgetting to think, forgetting to be afraid –

He pulled away. “Stop,” he whispered. “Don’t do this to me, Aziraphale, don’t lie to me. I can’t stand it.”

Confusion flitted across Aziraphale’s face. “I’m not –”

“Just – just don’t,” Crowley choked out, and he couldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes, couldn’t move for the ache in his chest. “Don’t kiss me like that when you don’t mean it.”

He felt the heat of Aziraphale’s flush. “Crowley, I’m not lying.”

“You’re not –”

“I’m not lying,” Aziraphale repeated. He reached a hand up cautiously to Crowley’s face, and Crowley couldn’t help but lean into his touch, couldn’t help but close his eyes and just breathe in the angel’s scent. He wanted to believe him, wanted to believe it _so badly_ –

“Don’t say it just to make me feel better, either. Please, Aziraphale.” He was begging now, shamelessly, brokenly.

“I’m not,” Aziraphale said. And then, quietly, “Would I lie to you? Look at me and answer me, Crowley, _please_.”

Crowley did look at him then, met that clear blue beautiful gaze, and couldn’t force any words out from his throat. He was terrified of speaking, of saying yes, Aziraphale could lie, and feeling their friendship crumble between them, of saying no, Aziraphale wouldn’t, and realizing that this angel, this beautiful, wonderful spirit, really loved him back.

Did he? _Could_ he?

Aziraphale answered for him.

“I love you too, you stupid bastard,” Aziraphale whispered. “I thought you knew.”

“I…I thought I went too fast for you,” Crowley said hoarsely, because that’s all he could think of to say at the moment. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to dare hope even though Aziraphale was telling him –

Carefully, Aziraphale reached out, slipped the glasses off Crowley’s face. “I suppose it’s time I step it up, then,” he said. He watched Crowley, held his gaze unwaveringly. “I was afraid, yes, but not anymore. You are _everything_ , my dear; you have always been more than enough, if only I’d been brave enough to tell you before now. And I’m so terribly sorry for all the pain my cowardice has cost you, because I’ve loved you for years – for _centuries_ , even if I wouldn’t let myself acknowledge it, and I hate that I let you go through this simply because I was afraid. I love you so much, Crowley. Will you believe me? Please, Crowley, _please_ believe me.”

Crowley stared at him. He was honest, open, vulnerable in a way Crowley had never seen him before in all the six thousand expressive years Crowley had known him. He thought about his beautiful bastard of an angel, the way he’d been delighted to see Crowley through the centuries, the way he’d betrayed Heaven and gone down to Hell to keep Crowley safe, the way he’d held Crowley close just last night, the way he’d kissed him just now –

He let himself hope for the first time in six thousand years, and he felt his shattered heart begin to come together again.

“Yes,” Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale almost seemed to glow. He kissed Crowley again, and Crowley’s cheeks were still wet and it made the whole thing a bit more messy than perhaps it should have been, but it was tender and sweet and heady like cherry wine and Eden. Aziraphale’s hands were on Crowley’s body, cupping his cheek, carding through his hair, wiping away his tears, and Crowley’s angel was holding him, and Crowley was no longer falling.

“Your bookshop,” Crowley mumbled against his angel’s lips, when he’d returned to his senses long enough to notice that the brightness of dawn was already well underway.

“Fuck the bookshop,” Aziraphale said without missing a beat, and kept kissing him. Crowley laughed helplessly and kissed him back, and held his angel close in the cramped passenger seat of his Bentley, and they loved and loved and loved under the blazing summer sun.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
